Nov 202011

It happened when he was on vacation. In a bar naturally. The big one. No power anywhere. City dark for miles. Everything quiet. Except here.

Here generators buzz like insults, keyboards clack. Phones flicker green against drawn faces.

The stage lights come up, then silence, then someone counting from the shadows, first a voice, then fingers: “Live in five, four, three,” two, one. Then questions through an earpiece.

He makes answers out of words, one by one. Head buzzing, tongue rank from the coffee. Serious. Reliable. Not drunk.

How the hell’d they find him? And why hadn’t they brought him his black mock turtleneck?

Nov 192011

The cameraman fiddled with his equipment. The wind and the sand kept jamming everything up.

“This going to be long?”

“Just another second. Sorry.”

A new kid. Nervous as hell. “Don’t worry about it. I’m going to take a leak. Be back in a minute.”

He walked off behind the van and stood on the edge of the ravine. The sun hung in a cold sky over bright rocky hills. A slow circling bird–a hawk maybe, or buzzard–called out from the horizon.

He undid his fly, cocked one hand on his hip and sent a thick stream of urine spattering over the Persian soil below. It steamed in the late afternoon air.

He wore a black mock turtleneck.

Nov 182011

He stepped into the elevator, dug the key out of his pocket, turned it in the slot, pressed “P.” The floors ticked by one by one as he rubbed his head and breathed a slow deep sigh. It was late, he was tired.

The door slid open on the soft green glow of the Toronto skyline shining through the bare windows of his living room. It was quiet.

He slipped off his coat, dropped his keys in the bowl by the door, stepped out of his shoes.

Then he saw them. On a table near the window, a glass of wine, a rose and a note. “Wake me up.” On the back of the chair, she had draped his black mock turtleneck.